Sankta Lucia
by Laura Schiller
Summary: The Doctor tries to rope Seven into taking the lead in a Swedish holiday tradition. She has other ideas.


Daughter of the Light

By Laura Schiller

Based on _Star Trek: Voyager_

Copyright: Paramount

"For the last time, _no_."

"But why not?" The Doctor threw up his hands and circled to block Seven, who had turned her back on him and was heading for the doors.

"Because it is irrelevant." She tried to sidestep him; he followed. Exasperated, she gave up and glared at him.

"There's nothing irrelevant about you getting in touch with your cultural heritage. It's an essential part of becoming an individual. I myself chose to study opera in part because of Dr. Zimmerman's mixed Italian and German ancestry. Saint Lucy's Day is a beautiful Swedish tradition dating back to the Middle Ages - "

"My father may have been Swedish, but my mother was Irish-American," Seven retorted. "On the stardate corresponding to Saint Patrick's Day, will you convince me to drink green beer?"

"Certainly not, and that's different! Carrying a few candles isn't going to make you sick."

"Candles are a fire hazard."

"Seven." He shot her such a look with his round hazel eyes – an _I-know-you-better-than-that_ look of fondness and irritation – that she had to look away.

"Look," he said, more quietly, "You don't have to if you don't want to, obviously. I thought you might enjoy it, not to mention the crew. We could all do with a bit of light these days." He jerked his head in the direction of the nearest viewport, which showed them a pitch-black universe only sparsely sprinkled with stars. To this, she found no reply.

"At least listen to the song," he added. "Computer, play Winter Solstice Playlist, Track One."

A rich chorus of voices filled the room. The lyrics were in Swedish; she hadn't expected that, but of course the Doctor did prefer to play music without the universal translator whenever possible. It interfered with the rhyme and rhythm. The hard, sharp sounds of her father's language, precise as ice crystals, unbalanced her. For a moment, she was six years old again.

/

" … _So, because Lucia wouldn't give up her faith, the Roman soldiers tried to drag her off to prison. But she would. Not. Be. Moved. Even with a whole crowd of them pulling her, she stayed put. Not unlike someone else I know when it's time to get out of bed, eh, Annika?" Magnus Hansen grinned at his daughter as she looked up from her pillow with an impatient pout._

" _But what happened next?"_

" _Oh, right. They piled up wood around her and set her on fire." Annika gasped. "But the amazing part was, she didn't die. And she kept on talking, praying those illegal prayers, even after they shot her in the throat with an arrow. She just refused to die until a Christian priest could come and give her the Last Rites."_

" _Wow!" Annika shivered gleefully. "That's creepy."_

" _Isn't it? Wait until we get to the Easter story."_

 _Erin Hansen's strawberry blonde head appeared in the doorframe. She was frowning. "Don't tell the child that, you'll give her nightmares."_

" _What?" Magnus shrugged. "If she can watch us work on Needlefingers without batting an eye," referring to the Borg corpse they were studying, "She shouldn't mind a story. You're my brave girl, aren't you, Annika?"_

" _Yes, Papa." Annika sat up in bed and beamed at him, glowing with pride. "I'm brave."_

" _And you'll look beautiful tomorrow in your white dress and wreath," Erin added, coming into the room to smooth her blankets._

" _Tomorrow? Can't I wear them now?"_

" _The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can wear them," said Erin, tucking her in and kissing her on the forehead. Her eyes were purple around the edges again, Annika noticed. Her mother always looked like that when she was up too late working._

" _Close your eyes now, honey," said Magnus._

 _And in a low, clear, loving voice, he began to sing._

 _/_

" _Annika, run!"_

 _Her parents' screams were the last she heard of them. Huddled under the console, she watched as the Borg drones reached for her with their metallic arms. To Annika, who had grown used to Needlefingers as a fixture around the ship, it felt as if the walls and chairs themselves were attacking her. She screamed._

 _She kept on screaming when the assimilation tubules pierced her neck. The pain was unbelievable. It burned like fire, but she did not die. Absurdly, she thought of candles: birthday candles on a cake only a few minutes ago. Christmas candles on a fir tree at Aunt Irene's house on Earth. Lucia's Day candles on a wreath on top of her head, fastened there by Mama's careful hands._

 _The Borg drone's hands were not careful as they hauled her along the green-lit corridors of their cube. They were hard and cold, and her blood was on fire._

This is just like Lucia, _she thought._ But I'm not brave. Papa, Mama! Make it stop!

 _But before long, her thoughts were no longer her own._

/

"Seven, are you all right?"

The Doctor's anxious voice and the buzz of his tricorder jolted her back to the present. She realized she was leaning forward, with both hands braced on one of Sickbay's many computer screens, and breathing more heavily than she should.

"Your pulse is racing. Your adrenaline level's increased by - "

"Computer, pause music," she snapped.

The Saint Lucy's Day carol cut off in mid-note, followed by a resounding silence.

"Oh … " The Doctor turned off his tricorder and backed away, chagrined. "I didn't mean … I should have … it was a flashback, wasn't it? I'm sorry."

"My father," she said, carefully straightening up and tucking her hands behind her back. "He sang this song to me when I was a child."

"I see."

She avoided the Doctor's eyes; she could guess by his voice how he looked right now, and those dark pools of compassion were more than she could endure right now.

"In any case, Doctor," she said, injecting as much firmness as possible into her voice. "I am too old."

"Twenty-eight is hardly old _-_ "

"The role of Saint Lucy belongs to a child, to the eldest daughter of the household. If you insist on following tradition, at least follow it properly." She turned around and, having her face under control again, managed to raise her non-cybernetic eyebrow in the same manner he used so often to annoy his shipmates.

That argument was effective, as she had known it would be. He hummed in the back of his throat, considering. "Then who would you suggest - " He stopped, coming to the same conclusion as she had minutes earlier. His wide mouth stretched itself into a larger smile than she would have believed possible. "Oh. _Oh!_ Yes, of course!" He clapped her on the shoulder. "Seven, you're a genius."

She shrugged off his hand and the compliment at the same time. "I will speak to her."

"And don't forget to ask her mother for permission. I'm sure she'll agree, though."

"Acknowledged." She nodded and turned to go.

"Oh, and Seven?"

"Yes?"

"I still think you'd make a magnificent Saint Lucy. You of all people … perhaps another year?"

She did not have the energy to argue further. "Perhaps."

/

On the stardate corresponding to December 13 by the Earth calendar, at twelve hundred hours, Seven watched from her seat at the back of the mess hall as the lights dimmed to thirty percent. A few gasps and exclamations of surprise sounded around her, but nothing more; it had all been cleared with the senior staff, who had been truly pleased to help. Suddenly hushed and shadowed, the emergency lights glowing red above the doors, the mess hall felt like a different place.

The doors slid open, letting in a blaze of light that made several people throw up their hands to shade their eyes. Seven's ocular implant whirred, adjusting its settings. She squinted with her human eye at the shimmering figures that entered the room.

They were singing – not her father's song, a different one, but still in words she recognized. As for the voices, at least one of them she would have known anywhere. Only the Doctor could sing with such inhumanly perfect pitch, and yet such exuberance. He wore a white silk shirt and trousers not unlike his Rigoletto costume, except that the cone-shaped hat was covered in gold foil stars. Of course, Seven thought, smiling behind her glass of nutritional supplement.

Icheb trailed behind him, similarly dressed, holding on to his star hat to keep it from sliding off and looking distinctly awkward. In front of them walked Naomi Wildman in a white dress with a red sash. On her head she wore a crown shaped to resemble pine branches, which carried four candles (borrowed from Commander Tuvok) flickering above her red-gold hair. She carried a platter wider across than she was, loaded with gingerbread and saffron buns. She was smiling as she sang.

When the song ended, everyone in the mess hall, including Seven, stood up to applaud. The Doctor bowed and blew kisses; Icheb tried to hide behind him; but Naomi hurried forward with her tray of pastries, eager to share, and was soon invisible behind an affectionate crowd. Only her high, cheerful voice carried across the room: "Neelix, look at me! I look nice, right? Hi, Tuvok, would you like a – Doctor, what are they called again? You're welcome, Tom! Sorry, Chell, you have to leave some for the rest of us, okay? Captain, do you like my dress? Mom replicated it, but it was Seven's idea. I'm dressed as a girl called Saint Lucy, d'you know the story? Seven told me. She, Lucy I mean, used to bring food to her friends who were hiding from some bad people in tunnels underground, and she put candles on her head to keep her hands free, like this. She was efficient, see? Like Seven. Excuse me, can I get through here? Excuse me!"

Flushed and triumphant, her candle wreath ever so slightly askew, the little girl emerged from the crowd right in front of Seven's table. Ensign Wildman and Captain Janeway followed in her wake, also pleased in their more subdued fashion. Seven could not help but notice the gentle way Samantha Wildman reached out to adjust the wreath on her daughter's head.

"You haven't had any cookies yet!" Naomi accused. "You're the one who made them. It's not fair."

This was true. Rather than trust to Neelix and his Delta Quadrant spices, she had worked on the replicator programming for forty minutes before getting some approximation of her Aunt Irene's recipe.

"Far be it from you to disobey the Captain's Assistant," added Janeway in her rough, kind voice, her gray eyes twinkling. "Go on."

"I will comply," said Seven, and picked up a saffron bun.

It tasted like home.


End file.
